


Handsome

by kate_the_reader



Series: Bob [4]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, leaving the past behind, trying new things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 04:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10268585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Handsome Bob is ready to try new things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hooptedoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hooptedoodle/gifts), [DonaDonaZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonaDonaZ/gifts).



> A gift for hooptedoodle. She knows why. Thank you for being you.  
> And for DonaDonaZ, who speculated on what would happen after [Building](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9505601/chapters/21504497)
> 
> As always, thank you to mycitruspocket, who helped me shape this in many ways.

“Bob. Bobby-boy,” says One Two, a sly grin on his face, “where’ve you been? We not good enough for you?”

The Speeler is loud with chat, smoke-filled. Bob almost shudders as he walks in. “Nah,” he says. “I just had … things to do.” 

He flops onto the sagging sofa under the window. Mumbles looks over from the card game, speculative, but he doesn't say anything.

“Things to do, Bob?” says One Two, like he always does, coming over and sitting on the arm of the sofa. He bends down sideways and says, low into Bob’s ear, “Out dancing, were you?”

Bob glances up at him. One Two hasn't changed. Still the same guy Bob first noticed in the local chippy: loud, standing out with his broad accent, his swagger, his air of macho certainty. Still the same guy Bob pined for, his chest still the same, his arms — long imagined and experienced just that one time.

“Dancing? Fuck off,” he says. He can feel his face heat up, looks down at his knees. He elbows One Two and stands up. “Right, what’s on?”

Sometimes he wonders why they do this, all this hanging around, broken up with crazy risks. Being ordered round by mad bastards. Boredom alternating with chest-pounding, sickening adrenaline highs. At the end of the day, he's either exhausted from the pointlessness of it all, or shaky with nerves and tension. Then drinking here or at home, eating a takeaway, watching telly in the dark, the sound of the neighbours’ lives all around, falling asleep eventually. Waking up and doing it all over again, never knowing if it’s going to be a sitting-around day or a crazy day.

But not now. Now, he has something else. Something that’s hard to believe. Walking out the door, driving all the way to Dave’s, it’s like crossing a border. Not that Bob’s ever crossed a border, but it feels like another country. 

The first few times had been terrifying. Even now, Bob doesn't assume. He texts: “tonight?” 

And Dave texts: “Yes, of course”. Or he rings back. “Bob,” he’ll say, “I’ve got to go and see a client”, or “I promised the lads I’d go down the pub with them”.

“Sure,” Bob will have to say. “Yeah. Tomorrow?” Swallowing down his disappointment. “Okay. Right. See you.” 

The times that has happened, his flat has seemed even more bleak and dingy. But Dave has always phoned later. 

“Hello, love,” he’ll say. “What’re you up to? How was your day?

Bob turns off the telly, sits in the dark on the sofa. “Oh,” he says, “you know … Nothing much. How was your day?” 

He hates that he can't tell Dave how his day was, not really. Telling him that he’s a driver wasn't really a lie, and he can complain about getting stuck in traffic, or say his boss is unreasonable, but what more can he say? It’s easier to ask about Dave’s day. More diverting, too. Dave likes the men who work for him, his “lads”, he finds the work they do interesting, likes to talk about his clients and the problems he has solved. Bob doesn't know if he notices how little he says in return. 

Dave is good at waiting for Bob to say whatever he needs to. Mostly. Not that first Sunday. Bob’s stomach still clenches unpleasantly thinking about day. But that was the start of everything, so he should be glad. He is glad.

Mostly, if Bob asks “tonight?” Dave’s answer is “yes”. 

One day he says, just like that first Sunday, “I’m out your way, meet you somewhere?”

That’s a scary thought. They can't go anywhere around here, get seen by one of the guys — One Two — in a pub. Bob feels a bit sick at the thought. 

After _that night_ , One Two looks at Bob differently. Bob’s seen the way Mumbles shakes his head at One Two sometimes. One Two had said, gruffly, one day in the car, “Mumbles here told me about you and my mum. Thanks, mate. I didn't know.” 

“’S’ okay,” Bob had said, ducking his head and concentrating on the traffic, and they haven't said any more about it. 

But even though One Two seems to have accepted the new (to him) reality of Bob, it doesn’t mean Bob is ready to be seen by him, or Fred, or Cookie, or any of the other Speeler lot, out with Dave. Dave is his. Dave doesn’t have anything to do with this life.

And it’s not just being seen by that lot. It’s being out, anywhere. After the first two days, him and Dave have been mostly at Dave’s house. It’s like their own country. The time Dave had made him go to the supermarket with him, to help him choose vegetables and beer and biscuits, Bob had kept his head down, certain all the old ladies and the young mums and the teenage boys could tell. About him and Dave. Dave hadn’t drawn attention, hadn’t touched Bob or called him “love” or anything like that, but Bob had been certain they could tell anyway. He had felt that he was giving off some sort of signal himself. In the van afterwards, Dave had driven home with his hand on Bob’s thigh when he wasn’t changing gears, his thumb rubbing slowly in circles, his fingers digging into the muscle. Bob had let out a shaky laugh. And pushed Dave up against the wall as soon as they were inside. Dave had understood, had kissed him back, and held him with his hand on the back of his head while Bob rested his forehead on Dave’s shoulder. And then they’d put away the groceries and drunk a beer while making bangers and mash for dinner. 

Bob knows it’s stupid. He’d gone to pubs with Bertie. But that was a different Bob, who wanted different things. Pointless things, as it turned out, all except that docket. 

So Dave’s easy suggestion that they just meet somewhere, on Bob’s side of town, is terrifying. He can’t let on though. Can’t show Dave what a pathetic, frightened _little boy_ he sometimes feels like. 

“Okay,” he says. “Where?”

Luckily, “out your way” isn’t just the grimy streets where Bob’s lot conduct their business, but also some of the shinier streets full of blokes in moustaches and tight jeans. Dave names a pub in Shoreditch. “The food’s good,” he says. That’s not anything that has been important to Bob before, but it is important to Dave, and Bob supposes that’s okay.

“Alright, love?” says Dave.

“Yeah, okay,” says Bob, his voice gone quiet. He clears his throat. “Fine, see you,” he says.

Luckily, he’s wearing a decent shirt, not one of the oversized sweatshirts he wears some days. He looks at himself in the mirror when he’s washing his hands in the disgusting toilet at the Speeler. “Don’t fuck this up,” he says.

Parking is impossible and he has to leave the car in a distant side street and walk to the pub. It’s started to drizzle and he hunches into his jacket, looking down at the ground, so he doesn’t notice when he puts his hand out to open the door of the pub just as Dave reaches for it too.

“Oh!” he says, startled.

“Hello!” says Dave, laughing. He brushes his pinky against Bob’s hand, barely there. They walk in together and Dave leads him to a table against the wall. The food _is_ good and they drink a beer each and Dave talks about the new job he’s just been signing the contract for. It’s a whole house renovation nearby; the clients are two men. “You’d like them, I think,” says Dave. 

The idea of meeting a gay couple is so strange. Bob wonders if that’s who people see when they look at him and Dave eating in this restaurant together. A couple. He wants to be with Dave. Now he’s got over his nerves, he likes staying in his bed, likes waking up with Dave, turning over and seeing him. He loves the first kiss when he arrives, quiet, in the hall, or more needy, against the door, depending on the day. And he fucking loves the sex, all the different ways he and Dave do it. But they haven’t talked about it; talked about what they are.

He looks up at Dave. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Peter is an estate agent, and Andy’s a photographer. They’re from Liverpool. Good Northern blokes.”

“Oi, not all the good guys are from ‘oop North’!” Bob shoots Dave a grin he hopes is cheeky and pushes his foot across to Dave’s, under the table. 

“But you know what I mean. Not posh,” says Dave, pushing his foot back against Bob’s.

“Yeah,” says Bob, still smiling. He doesn’t move his foot away.

They’ve finished their food and the one beer Dave thinks is reasonable when you’re driving. Bob would like another. He’s never had a drunk-driving beef, One Two knows how to fix those and Bob has driven with plenty more beers inside him plenty of times. Dave gets the bill and takes out a credit card. Bob doesn’t know how he feels about letting him pay, again, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to make a scene.

“Right,” says Dave, “shall we go?” He stands up. On the pavement outside he says: “You coming back? Or we could go to yours. I’ll be back this way again tomorrow. Save us both two trips.”

“What?” says Bob. Back to his sad and none-too-neat flat? His stomach clenches. “Back to mine?” He laughs. “It’s a tip,” he says. But he did change the sheets yesterday, so maybe it’ll be alright. He won’t turn on too many lights.

“Yes, Bob, back to yours,” says Dave, quiet, firm.

“Okay,” he says. They’ve parked in opposite directions so they part on the pavement. When Bob drives up, Dave’s van is already in his street. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat writing on a clipboard. Bob taps on the window and he looks up and smiles.

As they wait for the lift, Dave looks around. There’s no one else about, and he bumps his hip into Bob’s. In the lift he reaches for his hand. Bob wonders if he is aware how loud his heart is thundering. Every new thing makes him feel like this. He’s used to it by now, but it’s still scary. The lift stops and Bob gets out. “Down here,” he says, leading the way. One of his neighbours is leaning over the open side of the corridor, smoking. “Evenin’, Bob,” he says. “Hi,” says Bob, stepping past and going to his door. He can feel the guy’s eyes on his back as he unlocks it with Dave standing just behind him. They step through the door into the cramped hallway and Dave reaches for Bob when the door is closed.

“Hello, love,” he says, leaning down to kiss him. “God, I’ve wanted to do that all night.” Bob kisses him eagerly, gratefully. Pulling back, he leans against Dave, accepting the caress of his thumb circling at his nape. “Yeah,” he sighs. His eyes are closed and he hopes Dave can’t see too much of the flat’s sadness by the light spilling through the frosted glass pane in the door. Eventually, he has to stand back. “It’s really a tip,” he says.

“Eh Bob, do you really think I care all that much?” says Dave.

“Yeah, well …” says Bob, leading the way into the sitting room and gathering up mugs and plates from the floor next to the sofa. “Do you want a beer?” he says, going back down the hall to the kitchen.

“Sure,” says Dave.

When Bob comes back in, Dave is looking out of the window. The view’s pretty nice, at night. Bob steps up next to him and hands him a beer. Slips his hand into the back pocket of Dave’s jeans and palms his arse. Dave pushes back and smiles at him sideways. They drink their beers in silence.

When his is down to the dregs, Bob says, “Do you want …?”

“Yes,” says Dave. “I need a shower first though, if that’s okay?”

“Course. It’s small though.” He grins.

Dave elbows him and raises an eyebrow. “That’s too bad,” he says.

A hot spike of want flares in Bob’s gut, recalling the outcome of the first time they shared a shower. It doesn’t entirely cover his worry over the state of the bathroom. “Um, I’ll just go …” he says, tilting his head towards the hall.

The bathroom is pretty bad, but he picks up discarded clothes, straightens the mat and takes out a clean towel; it’s a bit threadbare but it’ll do, he supposes. It’s only one night. Dave has followed him down the hall.

“Sorry,” says Bob. “I put out a towel.

Dave laughs. “Stop apologising, love. I won’t be long, then you can shower too, eh?” He goes into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Bob goes into the bedroom, shoves more dirty stuff into the bottom of the wardrobe. He hasn’t had a chance to go to the laundrette this week. Some of his clothes have ended up mixed in with Dave’s and been washed there. 

He hears the shower shut off and then Dave comes into the bedroom with the towel round his hips. Want flares up in Bob again. “Fuck!” he says, laughing, taking two steps over to Dave and placing his hands flat on his chest. Dave’s skin is warm and a bit damp. His hair is standing up in silvery spikes. Bob closes his eyes and breathes in the steam faintly rising from him. He smells like Bob’s shower gel. Of course he does, but it’s still a bit weird. “Hey,” says Dave, softly, “hey.” He leans on Bob’s hands. Bob leans too, then runs his hands down Dave’s chest, round his waist, fingers slipping under the edge of the towel. He hears himself growl. 

“Go on,” says Dave, giving him a little push, “off you go.”

Bob opens his yes, looks up at Dave, who has a strange, soft look. Bob never knew what the word “fond” really meant, till now. “Okay,” he tries to say.

When he gets back from the shower, after trying to be quick, but thorough, Dave is on the bed, leaning on a pillow bunched up behind him, legs outstretched, towel hung over the door. He’s more than half hard. Bob’s mouth goes dry. “Christ!” he says, dropping his own towel in a heap and landing on his knees on the mattress. “Fuck, Dave!”

“Yes,” says Dave.

“What?” says Bob, thrown. 

Dave holds out his hand and Bob walks up the bed on his knees, straddling Dave. Dave grabs his shoulders, pulls him down till Bob is sitting on his heels in Dave’s lap, their cocks brushing together. Bob’s heart is pounding, of course, and his breath is short. Dave’s is too. 

“Will you fuck me, Bob?” Dave says, soft and almost hesitant.

“What?” says Bob, again. His brain feels fuzzy. Dave has fucked him one more time since the first time, when Bob asked again. It still feels almost too much. Bob can’t handle that kind of emotion too often.

“I want you to fuck me,” says Dave, a bit stronger. “Do you want to?”

“Um,” Bob says, stupidly. Dave frowns and looks off to the side. “No! No! Yes. Yes please!” Bob gabbles, trying to make Dave understand that his hesitation is not from lack of desire, but from surprise and sheer nerves. He brings his hands up to Dave’s face, turns him back, leans in to kiss him. “Yes,” he whispers into his mouth. Dave nips at his bottom lip and Bob’s heartbeat speeds up, if that’s even possible. They kiss for a long time, their hands on each other’s warm skin, their cocks bumping together, their breaths hitching and ragged. 

At last, Bob leans back, looks down. “I thought you—” he says.

“You didn’t hear me?” Dave cuts him off.

“Hear you? When?”

“When you asked the first time. I said, ‘both ways’. Did you think it was always going to be me, fucking you?” Dave has his hand in Bob’s hair and tugs lightly, forcing Bob to look up.

“Well …” says Bob. “I don’t think I was really hearing too much, then.”

“Oh, Bob.” Dave huffs a ghost of a laugh. “I suppose some guys are like that. Not me. Not you, I hope?”

“Um,” says Bob. _God, don’t fuck this up_ , he thinks, desperately. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. But I’ve never …”

He might have, with Bertie, if he’d got the chance. He’s glad he didn’t though. Now that he knows the true intensity of it. 

“It’s okay, Bob. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay,” says Dave, soothing.

Bob’s whole body is trembling. “Okay?! I hope so,” he says. “I want … I want to …” 

“And I want it too, so it will be fine,” says Dave. 

Bob wishes he could believe that. “How do you know I’ve even got a condom?” he says, to break the intensity, to buy himself some breathing room. 

Dave nods at the bedside drawer. “I checked.”

Bob has to laugh. They both do. Dave leans over, takes out the bottle of lube and a condom. He reaches up and runs his hand down the side of Bob’s face. “Come here, love. Just remember, go slow, we’ve got all night, if we want.” 

“Yeah,” says Bob. “I'm better at slow, now.” 

And it’s true, he has learnt to take his time, to spend ages discovering Dave’s body, finding out what makes him shake and cry out. And Dave has taught him the same about his own body. But this is something he doesn't yet know, can't know. All this anticipation has got him so wound up he wonders if he’ll last long enough to actually do it, though. 

“How do you want …?” says Dave. 

“I don’t know!” He feels unbalanced — eager and terrified and so, so unsure of himself. He thinks about what he liked, what felt good. Will that feel good to Dave? He’d sort of liked it when Dave held him down. But he needs to see Dave. He gets off his lap, reluctantly. Dave lets his thighs sprawl open, and Bob trails his hands up the insides. Dave’s thighs are muscular. Not gym muscular, but the muscles that come from climbing ladders, from working. He sinks into the sensation of trailing his hands along that secret skin, higher, higher, until he reaches the crease of Dave’s thigh. His thumbs brush Dave’s balls. 

“Ah,” Dave sighs, “ah, ah.” His voice twisting higher, catching. 

Bob smooths his hands back down. He reaches for the lube on the bed next to his knee; the cap is stiff and he uses his teeth. _Jeez Bob, so sexy_ , he thinks wildly. But Dave smiles at him, brings his thumb up to Bob’s mouth and pushes in. Bob smiles around it, bites down, swirls his tongue around the rough pad of it. Dave’s fingers are on the pulse under his jaw and he can feel how it's jumping against them. He is still for a moment, looking steadily at Dave. And then Dave twitches his hips and Bob comes out of his trance and shakes a blob of cool, slippery stuff into his hand. Just the feel of it makes his breath catch and he rubs his fingers through it. He shuffles back, looks down. Dave pulls his knees up a bit and Bob reaches down, one finger at the tight furl of Dave’s arse. He’s holding his breath. So is Dave. He circles his finger tentatively, and back up, just behind Dave’s balls, and back and dips his finger and pushes in just a tiny bit and … “Yeah”, Dave gasps softly, “yes love, yes, there” and Bob still hasn't been able to take a breath and he pushes his finger a bit further. And he remembers how this felt, how invading and intimate and overwhelming just this first breach had felt to him. He supposes it doesn't feel all that to Dave — he’s done this before — but he hopes he will be able to make Dave feel even some of what he has felt. He wants to give some of this back. He slips his finger in, and withdraws and slides in more and never takes his eyes off Dave’s face and that is the most intimate part of it all, somehow.

“Ah Bob,” Dave sighs.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

And then he sinks his finger deeper and he feels it, that little bump that he knows feels amazing. He crooks his finger, brushes up against it, just a flicker and away. A tremor runs through Dave, Bob feels it in the hand he has on his hip, and he … moans. It’s a surprising sound to hear coming from Dave. It’s like a noise Bob might make, has made. He has taken Dave apart before, when he’s gone very slow, used his mouth and his hands and drawn it out and out and out. But this is different. 

His eyes haven't left Dave’s face, but now he looks down, he wants to see where they are joined. 

Dave’s cock has gone soft. 

He stills his hand in his surprise. “Dave?” And his voice sounds so small and unsure, just like it had right at their beginning. 

“What, love?” 

Bob moves the hand he has had on Dave’s hip, stroking the tender skin there, and palms his flaccid cock.

“Oh.” Dave almost laughs. “Oh Bob. Yes, that happens. It always does. It’s not you, love, it’s not.” He runs his hand down Bob’s cheek, pulls his head down. “It’s not you. Don’t stop, love, don't stop,” he says softly into Bob’s ear. 

“Really?” says Bob, as Dave kisses up the line of his jaw and down the side of his neck. Dave has never lied to him, as far as Bob knows.

“Do that again,” says Dave, “do it again …”

So Bob curls his finger back, brushing, and Dave trembles again and arches up and Bob can feel his body relaxing and he slips his finger out and brings another finger up and pushes them both in, less slowly this time, until he’s touching it again and he’s careful but his control is getting looser and he knows he wants more and he pushes his fingers in and withdraws and returns and Dave is starting to writhe and gasp and Bob says, so low it’s almost not there, “More?” And Dave nods and he pushes another finger in and he has his other hand on Dave’s hip again, needs to hold him this way, and he keeps looking into Dave’s eyes, showing himself to Dave, and he can feel his own cock, against his stomach and leaking and he is ready and he gives his hand a little twist and Dave answers the question he has not even asked and says “yes” on a sigh and Bob withdraws his hand and gropes for the condom and tears the wrapper, carefully, with his teeth and Dave smiles up at him and reaches for it and he gives it to him and Dave’s hands feel so good, so good and he has to close his eyes as Dave rolls it on. 

He breathes, trying to be calm enough for this, calm enough to go slow and be gentle and present enough not to miss any part of it. He picks up the bottle again and reaches for Dave’s hand and pours a gob of the stuff into his hand and then Dave’s hand is on him, firmly stroking and he has to breathe again and he says: “Now?” and Dave smiles and nods and says, “Yes”.

He doesn't want to take his eyes off Dave’s face but he has to look down and he takes himself in hand and then he is pushing at Dave’s hole, it’s ready for him, and he pushes in, just in, and he feels as if there’s no air in the room. “Oh!” 

Dave arches up to meet him and he recovers from the shock of it and presses forward and leans down to kiss Dave and breathe with him. “Oh love, yes,” Dave murmurs, against his mouth. “Thank you.”

Bob isn't moving, but Dave nods when they break the kiss, and Bob pulls back, and pushes in more, slowly. It feels impossibly good, tight, but he isn't unwelcome. It feels right. Like when Dave fucks him, he needs the invasion that isn't an invasion at all. He tries to sustain a rhythm but his heart is banging wildly and he’s so close he’s not sure he'll last long. Dave has his hands on his chest, and that grounds him and helps to slow him and he pulls back so he can enter Dave more fully and the sounds of his breath, and Dave’s panting, and their bodies sliding together become oddly dreamlike. But it’s a wild dream and Bob can feel the tension ratcheting higher, higher — and he can't hold back, can't go slow, his hips speed up and he comes with a shout. He gropes for Dave’s hand, grips it hard, collapses on his chest, he can feel his cock still pulsing in Dave's arse. “Dave,” he whispers, too overwhelmed to speak louder. “Dave.”

“Oh, love,” whispers Dave, his hand on the back of Bob’s head. They lie still, the only sound is their heaving breaths. He can feel his cock getting soft and he shifts off Dave, slipping from his body. He wishes he could stay, but he thinks he knows enough about Dave to know that might not be welcome. 

When he has control of his breathing, he lifts his head to see Dave again. He is flushed and smiling. “Was that …?”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Bob. Love. I won’t come from it, but I love how you made me feel.”

Bob feels himself frowning; he ducks his head. “Well …” He strokes down Dave’s chest, down his stomach, past his hip. His cock is lying soft on his thigh. It stirs under Bob’s hand. He glances up, “I’ll just go …” He slips the condom off and gets up. In the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror, his eyes are a bit wild. He doesn't have a facecloth, so he holds one corner of a towel under the hot water to take to Dave. 

“Thanks, love,” says Dave, his voice quiet and his face soft.

Bob gets back on the bed. “Now, can I?” he says, settling his hands at Dave’s waist, drawing them down his thighs, sprawled wide. And back up. His cock is still soft. Bob licks his lips, wonders what it will feel like, in his mouth, on his tongue. “Can I?” he asks again. He wants to take Dave all the way. He bends down, drops his mouth to Dave’s cock, looks up at him from under his lashes. Dave’s mouth is open, he draws a sharp breath. Bob takes his cock into his mouth. It’s very different from any other time. He gropes for Dave’s hand, pulls it onto his head. Dave’s cock is getting hard, and slowly, slowly, Bob knows he can do this, can help Dave fall apart. He feels languid from his own orgasm, but Dave’s hands in his hair, tugging very lightly, help keep him present. The feeling of Dave getting hard in his mouth, filling it, his hips starting to twitch up, the weight on Bob’s head, never pushing him down, but grounding him, holding him, all these feel as good as when he was fucking Dave. Or when Dave has fucked him. Different, but good.

Dave pushes at his shoulder, even though he knows by now that Bob won't pull back, and Bob is ready and he swallows and when he pulls off he catches the last drops from the corner of his mouth on his thumb and holds Dave's eyes as he rubs it on his bottom lip. Dave makes a funny, strangled noise. Bob loves that. He smiles, soft, and crawls up the bed. He doesn't need to ask how it was, he can read Dave’s body and face after he sucks him off.

They haven't even pulled the duvet down yet. Now they do and resettle, Bob’s head on Dave’s shoulder, his hand on Dave’s hip, Dave’s hand on his head, his other hand on Bob’s. “Thank you,” says Dave. “Did you like it?”

Bob lifts his head to look at Dave. “God, yes,” he says, “but you didn’t … never? Why? Do _you_ like it?”

“Well,” says Dave, “it’s not my favourite thing to do, but I do like it, sometimes. I love everything we do, Bob. I love whatever you do to me, I promise you. I love your body.”

Bob lies down again. “Good. Me too. Everything.” He presses his mouth to the dip of Dave’s shoulder, and lets sleep take him. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Who was that bloke?” One Two says suddenly one day when he and Bob are sitting in the car, waiting for Mumbles to come out of a shop. “That old bloke?”

Bob turns to look at him, baffled. “What old bloke? What are you on about, mate?”

“Few weeks back. Saw you with some old geezer. In Shoreditch.”

“Dunno who you could mean,” says Bob, shrugging and closing his eyes. But then it dawns on him. _Dave_. _Old geezer? It was weeks ago. Why has One Two waited all this time to bring it up?_ He doesn't say anything, though. Let One Two wonder.

But he doesn't let it drop. When Mumbles gets back in the car, he says to him: “Remember we saw Handsome here with some old guy couple weeks back? Where was that, mate? Bob says he doesn't know who I’m talking about.”

Mumbles leans forward between the seats. “That’s because the guy wasn't an old geezer, you idiot,” he says, cuffing One Two on the shoulder and giving his head a shove. He turns to look at Bob. “Outside a pub in Shoreditch a few weeks back. Silver-haired chap?”

There’s no getting away from both of them. “His name’s Dave,” says Bob, quietly.

“Dave, eh?” says Mumbles. “What’s he do, then?”

“He’s a builder.” 

“And where’d you meet him?” says One Two, grinning.

“In a pub,” says Bob, very quietly.

“What was that, Bobby-boy?” 

“A pub,” says Bob, louder. “A pub, okay!”

“Jeez, Bob, keep your hair on!” says One Two. “A pub, eh? Not your dance club?” 

“No! Fuck!” Bob slams his hand on the steering wheel. “Fuck,” he says again, quieter. 

“It’s okay,” says Mumbles. “Leave him alone,” he says to One Two. “Don’t be a prick.”

“Sorry mate, didn't mean anything by it,” says One Two. “Dave?” he says speculatively, but Bob doesn't satisfy him with anything more. 

When he leaves the Speeler early that afternoon, One Two calls across: “Off to see Dave, are you?” Fred looks up, interested. Bob doesn't say anything, just slams the door as he leaves, his phone in his hand. He calls Dave, even though he will still be busy.

“Hello, love,” says Dave. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, “fine. When will you be home?” he adds in a rush. “Can I come over?”

“Of course. But I’ll be a while yet.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Why don't you come and get the key?”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“What? Sure. I should have given you one before.” He tells Bob the address of the job site. It’s in Shoreditch. “See you in a bit, love.”

“Okay. See you.” 

He rings the bell at the house. It’s not Dave who answers, but a guy in his thirties, Bob guesses. “Hi,” says the guy, “can I help you?” 

“Is Dave Parker here?” says Bob.

“Yeah, come through, he’s in the kitchen.” The guy has a Liverpool accent. 

There is evidence of renovation through the house, and the sound of drilling from the kitchen. “Dave?” the guy says as they step into the room. “There’s someone here to see you.” 

Dave is up a ladder with a drill. Cupboards are being fitted. He looks round and smiles at Bob. “Hello, love,” he says. 

Bob’s chest tightens nervously, but he smiles. “Hi.” 

Dave comes down off the ladder, and Bob can't help appreciating his arse as he does. “Andy, this is Bob,” he says. “Bob, Andy.” 

“Hello,” says Bob, sticking out his hand. The gay photographer from Liverpool, he remembers. 

“Bob just came to get the keys,” Dave says to Andy. “Won’t be long.”

“Don’t you want a cuppa, Bob? I was about to make the guys a cuppa.”

Bob glances at Dave. “Um, yeah, sure. Thanks,” he says.

Dave smiles at Bob again. “You’re off early. How was your day?”

“A bit shit. That’s why I left.” He shrugs.

“Oh? Want to tell me about it?”

They are interrupted with Andy with a tray of tea mugs. “Later, okay?”

“So, Bob, what do you think? Dave is working magic on this house. You should have seen it before,” says Andy.

Bob has never been to one of Dave’s work sites before, has only seen his own home to get an idea of what he does. Here, the kitchen is a huge room that’s still a tangle of tools and stacks of cupboard doors. The hallway is open where a wall has been knocked through and the staircase is flooded with light. One of Dave’s lads is plastering.

“Want to see upstairs? It’s more finished up there. Dave made us a real Hollywood master suite!” says Andy, leading the way up the stairs. Dave gestures with his tea mug for Bob to follow. 

The room at the top of the stairs is enormous, dominated by a huge bed, and with a freestanding bathtub at one end. In the bedroom. 

“Decadent, isn't it?” says Andy. “It’s like a hotel at home.” 

Bob looks over at Dave, who’s smiling, sort of shyly.

He wonders what it would be like to lie on the bed and watch Dave in the bath, or to be the one watched. 

“It’s great,” says Bob, grinning at Dave.

“Took a bit of getting used to though,” Andy says, with a laugh. “Lucky I’m an exhibitionist. Peter’s still a bit shy.”

Above the bed is a big black and white photo of a naked, sleeping man. Andy sees what Bob is looking at. “Peter,” he says. “Not always shy.”

“The rest of the bathroom’s through there,” says Dave. “The bits you don't want to share. Huge shower,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah?” says Bob as Dave presses briefly up against him in the doorway.

The contrast with his morning with One Two could not be greater. 

“Well, I’d better get back to work. Those cupboards won't fit themselves,” says Dave. He follows Bob to the front door. 

“Nice to meet you, Bob,” says Andy. “We should all get together when this is all done, yeah?”

Dave takes out his house keys. “I’ll see you later, love,” he says. Then he leans down and kisses Bob’s cheek. In front of Andy and the lad who’s plastering.

Bob likes the flare of heat in his face. “Yes, bye. See you later,” he says. “Bye, Andy.” 

At Dave’s Bob lies down on the bed — their bed — and is soon asleep. He’s startled when the doorbell rings, and stumbles down the stairs. 

Dave grins when he opens the door. “Hello love! What a treat to have you here!” Bob hardly gets the door shut before he is kissing Dave up against it, wound up from his weird day and from sleeping on their bed, on Dave’s pillow. 

“Mmm, yeah, hello,” says Dave again, smiling, his hands on Bob’s arse. 

Bob buries his nose in Dave’s shoulder, pushes his arm up. He smells of MDF glue from drilling, plaster, and sweat. “God,” says Bob, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Want to tell me about your day now?” says Dave, taking his hand and climbing the stairs. 

“Can I shower with you? Just shower?” 

Dave laughs. “Let’s see!” he says, going to the bathroom and starting to strip off his work clothes. Bob sits on the edge of the bath to watch.

“You were right,” he says, “Andy’s nice. Not posh. Good photographer.” He giggles. “I liked that bath,” he says. “Great view.”

“First time I’ve been asked to do something like that. Quite tricky, but they insisted. I can see the appeal,” Dave says. “Why aren't you undressed?” Bob stands up, drops his jeans and tugs his shirt over his head, leans into the shower and starts the water while peeling off his underpants. He steps under the spray and beckons to Dave, reaches for his shower gel and soaps a facecloth.

“I thought we were going to just shower,” says Dave, when Bob reaches for him. He laughs.

But Bob says: “I really do want to. I want to wash and talk. Come here.” And he runs the soapy washcloth down Dave’s chest, under his arms, across his shoulders. He scrubs Dave’s back, lingers a bit on his arse, crouches down to wash his legs and feet. Dave has his eyes closed and he’s humming in pleasure. It's tempting to turn the touching completely sexual, but Bob doesn't want that, right now. He reaches up to wash Dave’s hair, standing on tiptoes, balancing with a hand on his shoulder. Dave bends his neck to make it easier. He reaches for his razor, but Bob grabs his hand. “No, please?”

“Okay,” Dave agrees. “Your turn.” And he soaps the washcloth and returns the care. When they get out, Bob hunts through the basket of clean laundry to find some of his clothes to change into. Dave hands him a pair of trackie bottoms. 

“What shall we make for supper?” says Dave, going downstairs.

“Tomato sauce?” Bob loves making tomato sauce, the first thing Dave showed him. Chopping the onions, celery and carrots occupies your hands so you can talk. 

Dave takes out two chopping boards, grabs onions from the basket on the counter and celery and carrots from the fridge. He gets them both a beer. When they are standing side by side, chopping — Bob the onions, Dave the celery and carrots — he says: “You were going to tell me about your day?”

“Yeah.” Bob’s not sure where to start. “You know I told you about my mate One Two?” 

“The not very sensitive bloke?” Dave looks sideways at Bob.

“Yeah, him.” Bob snorts, “that’s him. He’s a good bloke, really, but he’s not very sensitive. I mean, I gave him a bit of a shock …” 

Bob has had to edit the story of that night. He left out the prison send-off, turned it into a birthday surprise, but he didn't change how One Two reacted. Dave understood; he’s known blokes like that too, of course.

“Well, he saw us together. In Shoreditch.” 

“Weeks ago?” 

“Yeah. He only mentioned it today. Asked me who the ‘old geezer’ was.” He stops chopping and looks at Dave sideways to see his reaction to this.

“What?” Dave pretends to be offended, but he laughs.

“His eyesight is terrible,” says Bob, laughing too. “He asked where we met. I said in a pub. Ah, fuck him, he's jealous.”

“But it's not so simple, is it?” says Dave, picking up Bob’s chopping board and pushing the onions into the pan.

“He’s going to go on and on. That's just how he is. He just really pissed me off today. _Old geezer_ , fuck!”

“Does it worry you, that he thinks I'm too old for you?” Dave adds the vegetables to the pan and turns down the flame. He is looking at what he’s doing, but Bob knows he’s listening. He leans against the counter and considers that. 

“He thinks I'm a kid, sometimes. Always checking where I'm going, what I’m doing. I suppose I let him, before.” 

“And now?”

“And now I have you.” 

“Do I treat you like a kid?” Dave turns away from the cooker to focus on Bob. 

“No.” He fiddles with the beer bottle label. “Not in a bad way. I like it when you show me … things.”

“Things?”

“Yes, like cooking. And … other things. I like that.” He looks up at Dave, who’s frowning slightly. “And when you ask how the day went. That … feels good.”

“Oh Bob.” 

“Like you’re interested. Not like you're checking up.” 

“And you're interested in my day. It's been a long time since anyone was.”

Bob has been focused on learning to be with Dave, but Dave had to learn that too. Or relearn it. He steps into Dave's space, against his solidity. “I don't care what they think,” he says, wanting to make that true. “Do you?”

“No, I don't think I care what people think. But it's a long time since I was with someone. I didn't introduce you properly today.” 

“To Andy? I think he knew.” 

“Yes, but I didn't say.” 

“What should you have said?” 

“Boyfriend?”

“Really? You’d say that?” Bob crowds up against Dave even more, stretches up to kiss him. “Huh,” he says. “Boyfriend. Never been a boyfriend.”

“Hang on a sec,” says Dave, and turns off the gas. “Now, where were we?” 

Bob stretches up again, and licks into Dave’s mouth. Their kisses threaten to tip over into needy rutting against the counter, but they aren't just two horny guys, they’re boyfriends who have all the time they want, so Bob steps back eventually and turns on the burner again. Dave gets a tin of tomatoes out of the cupboard and Bob fills the pasta pot with water and sets it to boil. He sticks his hand into Dave’s pocket as they wait. “I liked watching you climb down that ladder today,” he says, giving his bum a squeeze. “You’ve got a great arse. For an old geezer!”

“Oi, watch it, kid,” says Dave, giving him a gentle shove.


	3. Chapter 3

Andy has made good on the throwaway invitation he issued that day at his house weeks ago and now, after dinner at the huge table that dominates the renovated kitchen — pork slow-roasted to tenderness and a chocolate tart that has Bob groaning — they are sitting on the terrace in the late summer dusk.

“Have you guys been to that new bar in Redchurch Street?” says Peter. “We’ve been wanting to try it.”

Bob looks over at Dave. “We don’t go out that much,” says Dave.

Redchurch Street is a bit close to the gang’s area of operation, but Bob wants what he said to Dave, about not caring what people think, to be true. He’s stopped being so sure people are looking at them and judging them in the supermarket or on the street.

“I’d like to though, wouldn’t you, Dave?” 

“Of course, if you want to, love,” says Dave. Bob nods, reaches out for his hand. “Yes, absolutely,” Dave says to Peter and Andy. “Next Friday?”

In the taxi back to Bob’s, Dave says: “You like them, then?”

Bob does. Peter and Andy share an easy, teasing affection and the evening was fun. 

“Yeah, they’re good blokes. And Andy can't half cook!” 

Bob’s flat is neater, now that Dave spends a night or so a week there, but Dave’s feels more like home. 

Bob’s going barmy by the end of the week, driving One Two and Mumbles around on one stupid errand after the other. He can't wait for Friday evening. He heading for the door when One Two calls out his familiar tired refrain: “Places to go, people to see, Bob?”

“Fuck yeah,” says Bob. “See ya!” 

They’ve arranged to meet at the bar. He’s been home to change and walked over, since it's a nice evening and he won't want to drive later. He’s standing outside waiting for Dave, trying not to feel awkward, hoping he’s dressed okay (a new pair of jeans, tighter than he usually wears, and a white shirt). The people going into the bar look sleek and successful, what Mumbles would call “media gits”. But he thinks he’ll be alright.

“Hello, love.” Dave has walked up behind him and kissed his cheek before he has time to react. He can feel his face heating up, but he decides to ignore it.

“Hello.” He turns his face to meet Dave’s mouth, feeling reckless, his heart beating crazily. No one on the street or at the door of the bar reacts. 

“Shall we go in?” says Dave, reaching for his hand. Bob doesn't flinch. The place is full, but they find a table and wait for Andy and Peter. Bob puts his hand on Dave’s thigh. He’s got his back to the room, leaning towards Dave, listening to him talk about the difficult new client he’s taken on, when a familiar voice behind him says: “Hello, Handsome!” and a big hand lands on his shoulder. He twists round. One Two is grinning down at him. “Fancy seeing you here, Handsome! Who’s this then?” 

Bob can feel his face flushing red. He takes his hand off Dave’s thigh. Of course One Two notices. _But fuck him._ “Dave. My boyfriend, Dave.”

Dave holds out his hand. “Dave Parker. And you’re …?”

“One Two,” says Bob.

“Nice to meet you,” says Dave.

“Yeah, pleasure,” says One Two, shaking Dave’s hand and then looking at Bob with a baffled expression, just as Andy and Peter approach the table.

“Hi, sorry we’re late,” says Peter. “This one had a tricky shoot.”

“God, I thought it would never end,” says Andy, leaning down and kissing Dave on the cheek.

“Ooh,” says One Two, “guess I’ll be off then. See ya, Handsome!” He slouches off with a wave.

“Handsome?” says Dave. “He’s the not very sensitive one?” 

“Oh god,” says Bob. “Ignore him, please.” He knows he’s blushing furiously.

Dave leans close to Bob and says privately: “He’s not wrong though.” He reaches for his hand under the table and gives it a squeeze.

They have fun, drinking a bit too much and laughing at Peter’s funny stories about house hunters from hell, and Andy’s of photo shoots gone wrong. Dave has a few about his own clients’ bizarre demands. He reminds Bob of one of the stories he told on that very first night in Soho. The bar doesn't do proper food so they move on, and it’s late before they're waiting for cabs.

“Back to mine?” says Bob.

“Yes, please, love,” says Dave. “I need water and bed. You youngsters have drunk me under the table.” 

“Old geezer,” Bob whispers in his ear.

“That’s me, Handsome,” says Dave, patting Bob’s arse.

They lean against each other in the cab. 

In bed, after Dave has drunk the water Bob brings him and the light is off, Bob says: “You know I’m not really just a driver, don't you?” 

He’s not sure Dave’s still awake.

“You can tell me in the morning, if you want,” says Dave, soft and slurring with sleep.

Bob wonders if Dave will even remember tomorrow. “Okay,” he says, leaning up to kiss Dave, his heart clenching. “Okay. Yeah, I will.”


End file.
